Secrets
by cupcakes-and-wisdom
Summary: Have you ever wondered, even just for a second, why it is within the human nature to form a society? I have. Societies are manipulative and rude, and, every now and then, they cause a hell lot of unwelcome trouble for a poor unsuspecting individual. In this case, that's me. Harry James Potter, the Chosen One, the-boy-who-lived, the-brat-who-wouldn't-die, call me whatever you want.
1. Chapter 1

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,_  
><em>And sorry I could not travel both<em>  
><em>And be one traveler, long I stood<em>  
><em>And looked down one as far as I could<em>  
><em>To where it bent in the undergrowth; <em>

_Then took the other, as just as fair,_  
><em>And having perhaps the better claim<em>  
><em>Because it was grassy and wanted wear,<em>  
><em>Though as for that the passing there<em>  
><em>Had worn them really about the same,<em>

_And both that morning equally lay_  
><em>In leaves no step had trodden black.<em>  
><em>Oh, I kept the first for another day! <em>  
><em>Yet knowing how way leads on to way<em>  
><em>I doubted if I should ever come back.<em>

_I shall be telling this with a sigh_  
><em>Somewhere ages and ages hence:<em>  
><em>Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,<em>  
><em>I took the one less traveled by,<em>  
><em>And that has made all the difference. <em>

_- Robert Frost_


	2. Chapter 2

Secrets

cupcakes-and-wisdom

Chapter 1

Have you ever wondered, even just for a second, why it is within the human nature to form a society? I have. Societies are manipulative and rude, and, every now and then, they cause a hell lot of unwelcome trouble for a poor unsuspecting individual. In this case, that's me. Harry James Potter, the Chosen One, the-boy-who-lived, the-brat-who-wouldn't-die, call me whatever you want. This is my true story, one that's not messed with by a certain old man. Read on if you're not afraid of the truth.

You see, the way my life is portrayed through the 'Harry Potter' series, is a bunch of lies, from fifth year on. What you, as muggles, read for entertainment or fun, is actually a true story, but warped to fit someone's expectations. In these books, you'll have noticed, I'm sure, the bravery, intelligence, nobility and helpfulness which is Albus Dumbledore. What you won't have seen is the cunningness, manipulation and fraud which is truly Albus Dumbledore. Don't worry about it, I didn't either. At least not until the summer after fourth year.

...

I had been hiding all summer. Hiding from the heat, hiding from my relatives, hiding from the muggle world. All I wanted was to simply apparate back to where I belonged; with Sirius, my godfather. All summer, the only news I had received was the Daily Prophet, delivered to me daily by a tawny owl who would nip at my fingers while awaiting his payment of 6 knuts.

The Daily Prophet is a tabloid. No, it's not a gossipy bunch of pointless articles which contain idiocies such as who got the latest, trendiest tattoo. It's a true newspaper, containing news, political situations, current problems and much, much more. Now the problem with the prophet is that it's owned. Owned? You ask. Well, everything is owned. Someone has to own the bloody thing. You say, pushing away all proof that this particular newspaper is a tabloid. However, I can then rebuke your argument by explaining the magical world's political situation.

Currently, the Ministry of Magic, the MoM, is the holder of power. MoM is actually a pretty correct acronym. The Ministry denies anything which causes them trouble, and warps any problems so that they're not issues, and so, naturally, they're always correct. They manipulate, model and turn once solid, standing pieces of information into putty at their touch. All in all, they're a bunch of slimy, manipulative gits with a bunch of money and power. So basically, they own the prophet and are throwing out all sorts of rubbish about Dumbledore and I. About how we're insane, about how we're lying weirdo's, etc., etc., etc. I internally snort to myself whenever I read another one of their: 'Potter/Plotter?' articles. Or I laugh. Depends on my mood.

All this to say that my only source of news the whole summer was from a bunch of people in denial who portray me either as a liar, a nutter or a murderer. Which made me pretty angry. (Not the MoM part, I had come to terms with that a long while ago, the getting no news from my friends part.) So, a frequent way to spend time was to lie on my bed and reflect on Stuff. Important Stuff. Which led me to sit at my desk and label a piece of paper Blame. Blame contained several rows; one for the MoM, one for Dumbledore and one for Voldy. And as I went through all my years from birth and dissected every problem I had faced within my 15 years of being alive, I grew angrier and angrier. Because as my life on the paper progressed, more and more little lines of Blame appeared under the Dumbledore column. And I started to doubt. And Blame.

I was certain of two things; one, that my parents had loved me and two, that Voldemort had killed them, leading to me becoming the-brat-who-would-not-die. So, if my parents had loved me, no screw that, since my parents had loved me, why did they organize it for me to be placed under the care of my abusive, idiotic, stupid and violent muggle relatives? And as this train of thought progressed, I wondered if they had intended for me to end up here at all, which then caused me to wonder who had placed me here, which then led me to place another Line of Blame under Dumbledore's column.

Determined to find out the truth, I set to writing a letter to Gringotts after some consideration. I had read somewhere about how Gringotts was not only a bank, but also held wills and such. So I contacted them and asked them whether they had my parents will. They replied shortly via a goblin named Ragnok. He explained that yes, they did, but that they had been instructed to keep it closed until the rightful heir was found. They said that since I had contacted them directly in the premise of finding the will, they had permission to reveal its up-opened contents to me, and we then arranged a meeting for this purpose.

So that's how I found myself, after several hours of roaming the underground and wondering what today was going to reveal, sitting in front of Ragnok, hands clasped and placed on my lap, face void of emotion.

"Sir, you must sign this confirmation that you acknowledge searching for your inheritance yourself by dropping your blood onto the parchment, please."

"Of course"

"Harry James Potter, you are hereby named the one and only true heir to Lord James Potter's title as Lord of the Moste Ancient and Noble House of Potter. "

There was a flash of white light and I blinked in bewilderment.

"I'm sorry, Ragnok, what does that mean?"

"It means, Sir –"

"Oh, please don't call me Sir, you can call me Harry:" I interrupted and a strange look passed over Ragnok's face before he bowed and thanked me.

"Well, it means, Harry, that you now have an honorary place amongst the Wizangamot as heir to one of the original 15 Pure-blood houses. It also means that now you have full possession of the Potter estates, wealth and objects."

"Don't you have to be of age to receive such … privileges?"

"It is true that, under normal circumstances, you must be 17 years old to receive this. However, it is clearly stated in your parents' will that you were meant to receive this position and its benefits as soon as your they passed away. This is extremely worrying, as it proves that someone tampered with the first and foremost laws binding wills, as you have only received this information at your own request."

I pondered on this for a little while. So now I was a Lord, and owned the estates, wealth and possessions of the Potter House. That granted me full independence, which meant I could leave the Durseleys'?

"Uh, Ragnok, does this mean that the normal age restrictions on performing magic, apparition and um, living arrangements are lifted as well?" I asked, crossing my fingers under the table and scrutinizing Ragnok's face for any signs of a yes.

"It appears so." The goblin replied, the tiniest signs of a smile appearing at the twitch of his lips.

"Um, Ragnok, do I need an … um, well, like an agent or something?"

I stuttered, not knowing how I could handle all this on my own. I was, after all, only 15 years old. I internally blushed at how awkward I sounded, and decided that I had to improve on talking to people, so I shifted in my seat and met his eyes.

At that question, the goblin's face lit up. "Well, James and Lily were good friends to us goblins, which is unlike many wizards today, as they like to associate us as the equivalent to house elves, some sort of servants. I would like to clarify that we are a different folk entirely to you, and that the goblin nation do not think very highly of many wizards, so it was rare to know people such as James and Lily. Ah, yes, I knew your parents, Harry;" he said as the shock registered on my face, "yes, I did, and they were two of the best wizards I have ever met. I had the honor of being their estate, property and finance manager, and I would be honored to help you as well,"

Ragnok finished, and smiled at the expression on the my face. "Yes please, Sir" came my polite response, and then I proceeded to ask for a full list of what I now possessed.

After two long hours of signing contracts and such, I emerged from the bank feeling older. I was now Lord Potter, and owned 5 residences around the world, which included a manor in the Scottish Highlands, a cottage (but which was now rather wrecked) in Godric's Hollow, a holiday home in the Maldives, another manor in France for the House's business with the French MoM and an apartment in muggle London. I also had a vault that contained all the Potter Heirlooms and another with their full wealth, as well as the trust vault, which I had believed was the extent of my wealth before today.

Ragnok had explained the blood wards that Dumbledore had placed around Privet Drive were now useless as my magic had 'come of age' and therefore, I am no longer traceable or under the protection of these blood wards. I smiled, delighted to be free of the Dursleys. I was now an independent man.

Ragnok had explained that I was allowed to apparate as well, but advised me to take the course and obtain the license so the MoM couldn't find an excuse to put me under lock and key. So I set off to the apparition quarter in Diagon Alley and obtained my license.

Now that I was seriously rich and the heir of one of the oldest pureblood lines ever, I understood that I required proper clothing. I had proudly on my finger the Potter Ring, which underlined my new title. As I walked into Madam Malkins, I ordered many different sets of Dress Robes, all with the Potter crest printed on them. After flashing her my ring, Madam Malkin was subdued and quiet, calling me 'my Lord Potter' which made me laugh and insist she call me Harry. She gave me a reduction which I refused as I had quite enough money to pay for a couple of clothes, thank you very much. That, and, it seemed just pure wrong to have to pay less than someone else simply because of my name.

Once I left the shop, I muttered the activation password to the imbedded portkey on my ring to take me to the Manor in the Highlands. After some consideration and advice from Ragnok, we had made that my primary residence. He had explained how the ring held a portkey which could only be used by myself and which could, with the right activation codes, transport me to the residence of my wish.

So I arrived at the front door to the Manor, and I timidly reached out to the doorknob. To my complete and utter surprise, the door swung open at my touch. When I took my first step into the entrance hall, there were two loud cracks, and then two house elves stood before me. With a small gasp from each of their mouths, they started talking over each other at a rate that was completely confusing to me.

"Lord"

"Harry"

"Potter"

"What an honor, Sir"

"We're your loyal elves, Sir"

"I'm Binky and this is Dinky, Sir"

And then all at once they stopped talking as if they realized that I was standing there, mouth open like a fish, utterly gob smacked. The Potters had two house elves? What had they done whilst I was away and my parents were dead?

As if sensing my confusion, Dinky shyly took my hand and led me to a wide comfortable room, which I assumed was a living room, and sat me down. They then explained that they had been waiting for their heir to come back to them, and that they had been taking care of the 5 properties, and had been alerted the moment he stepped inside, due to the privacy wards which were layered on the estate. I nodded and cringed every time they called my Master, or Sir. So after they had finished explaining, I introduced myself and explained that I had been prevented from reaching my parents' will by Dumbledore, and that I was honored to meet them and that please, they could call me Harry. At this, Dinky started sobbing and muttering that I was too kind, and that I reminded her of James, and dear, dear Lily.

I just sort of stood there awkwardly until Binky smiled and took my hand, and then they both proceeded to give me the official tour of the house until I was completely confused by where the library, kitchen, dining halls, ball rooms, living rooms, living quarters and everything else were in this maze of 5 floors.

Finally they left me in the study, scolding me by saying that I was too skinny, and that they were going to cook up a meal for me. I sat down in the plush arm chair where I wistfully imagined my dad sat before me, and I started writing letters. The first was to Sirius, asking him please to floo to the Potter Residence. Then the same were sent to Hermione and Ron.

Sirius got there first, and we had intense discussions involving a certain white-haired headmaster, and then we came up with a plan, which both Ron and Hermione, who had both arrived shortly after Sirius, agreed to. Late at night, the former two left with promises to visit the next day and leaving Sirius to stay the night in one of the many other bedrooms which were part of the Potter Residence.

Finally, I lay back on my bed, staring at my bedroom ceiling that had been charmed to reveal the night sky above me, and I just took a moment to take in all that had happened that day. And that's how I fell asleep, on my back, with a big smile stretched across my face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

The next day, Harry awoke and blinked at the glare of the risen sun, moentarily confused as to where he was. Then it all came back to him in a bg flurry of emotions, and he smiled such a real smile that the irror he stared into grumbled about how it was too early in the moring for happiness.

After a long, refreshing shower, he picked out an outfit and walked out his room, noticing that the door in front of him was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he glanced around and realized that he was inside a parlour. Not seeing anyone, he turned to leave until he saw her.

Her hair had outgrown the bushiness it had formerly contained, instead becoming sleek and smooth tumbling in short waves down to her shoulders. From behind, harry took a moment to appreciate just how much Hermione had grown up. Through her skinny jeans and baggy top he could see the curves which had developed over the holidays, and he grinned when he saw her usual black converse on her feet.

Moving behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist, he committed the small gasp which slipped through her plump lips to memory, and savoured the blush which spread over her cheekbones as she recognized him. For a minute they stood there, small girl being hugged by a small boy and both staring out at the magnificent view which was laid out before them.

After a while Harry pulled off her and instantly regretted the softness of her touch, the slimness of her waist and the sweet smell of vanilla and flowers he had come to label as Hermione. They stood in silence for a while before breaking into small talk and then walking down to have breakfast in the dining room, where both Dinky and Binky took delight in serving them pancakes, still warm, as they chattered for a while about everything and nothing.

It was only then that Harry realized just how much he had missed her bright smile, her honey colored eyes which lit up when she started to explain something and the way her hands flourished in the air when she went into a theory.

After peeping into Sirius' room to see that he was still sleeping, he led Hermione up to the library, where they spent hours immersing them into the hunt where he desperately searched for any information he could salvage from what Dumbledore had told him before he left Hogwarts the year before.

_'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives … the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies …'_

_The voice that had echoed in the office just moments ago fell silent, and the silvery figure sank back into the Pensieve. The portraits looked on with baited breaths. Dumbledore watched Harry sitting in front of his desk, waiting for a sign, or a reaction. Part of him was tempted – Oh, so tempted to take a peek into the boy's mind –but knew better than to try; everyone who knew the Headmaster could see the temptation lurking behind those eyes, and yet would have known the old man would not give in. Had he not learned his lesson? He could not dare to give in, to follow these selfish notions, his curiosity. His need to prove himself had never led him to any success but instead to ruination. And so he waited, ignoring his exhaustion._

_Inside Harry, an all-consuming fire was raging, threatening to burst forth, but held back for the moment. Anger at Dumbledore for his part, for his lack of action and foresight, at his own powerless state and lack of caution, anger at the Ministry for failing at the most rudimentary of tasks –keeping the people save, something they had so shamefully neglected in their stubbornness –mixed with fierce hatred at Bellatrix and her chosen master for ever crossing his path. Fury directed at Snape's... at Snape, merely for existing, for not jumping into action, but just standing by, at Hermione for not stopping him in his foolishness, at Neville for blindly following, at Luna for being far too nice to really hate her for anything, at Ron for being such an idiot to get cursed with whatever had made him lose his mind for a time, at Ginny for getting hurt during their escape... Why had he, Harry, who had been told Voldemort could enter his mind, believed the vision? He had been an idiot, blinded by his fears. He should have realized they were walking into a trap when they hadn't met a single Ministry worker._

_But worse than the flames coursing through his veins was perhaps the din in his mind –as if hundreds of voices were sounding in his ears, each one louder than the last. Harry heard what sounded like a Ron stumbling through his best attempts at a laughable consolation, a Hermione, reminding him in a slightly superior tone how she had foreseen the trap and had tried to warn him only to have him not listen to her as he usually did, a Dudley laughing at Harry's misfortune just like he had done in the past, Piers Polkins out of breath hissing cruel taunts and threats far too close to the ear just like he had always done when he had held someone's arms behind their back in the tone that could make the skin crawl, Mrs. Cooper from elementary school brushing off Harry like always, Mr. Baker, bored as he had been each time Harry had heard him, explaining slowly why, exactly, it had been Harry's fault something had happened –even if he hadn't been anywhere near the scene –and a Bellatrix, mocking him for his completely ineffective fury. The soothing of Sirius Harry overheard, fearing the words. Harry knew it had been his fault –who else's could it have been? –and nothing the sound alike said would ever change that simple fact. Mrs. Weasley's voice resounded as if amplified by magic in his mind, mourning the loss only half-heartedly as she would most likely do in real life –Sirius and she had been on less than cordial terms, again a fault of Harry's. And, as always, there was also a Dumbledore who was trying to find comforting words all the while the ever-present Snape murmured his taunts and cruelties that everyone else chose to overhear about Harry, his father and 'the mutt'._

_Finally, Harry moved. The fire threatened to consume him, or maybe break free and burn the man in front of him, and Harry couldn't even be angry at the force of nature waiting to be unleashed. And yet he found himself wanting to have even more fuel for his hatred of Dumbledore. It was for that reason he felt himself saying, "This has to do with me, hasn't it? It's me, right?" His voice was calm, measured. "This prophecy? I have to... fight him?"_

_A good sign, Dumbledore seemed to decide from his expression. Truly, the boy –young man, really –was far more mature than anyone ever gave him credit for. "Yes and no, Harry. The prophecy spoke of a boy 'born as the seventh month dies', a boy whose parents defied Voldemort on three separate occasions. That part could have applied to both you and young Mr. Longbottom, as both sets of parents had done so. And you were both born at the end of July of 1980. Technically, it could have also meant a boy born in late July of any of the following years. However, Voldemort had never heard anything more than the first half of the prophecy, everything after 'born as the seventh month dies' is still only known to the two of us. Based on what had actually reached his... well, him, Voldemort went and tried to eliminate the potential threat to his existence. He chose to go after you, the half-blood. We know what happened, of course. 'The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal', and so he did. So for what it is worth, the prophecy means you, yes, but mainly, because Voldemort made it so by attacking your family. It is true and will be fulfilled, because of Voldemort's decisions. Fate can sometimes be rather peculiar in that manner."_

_Harry seemed to mull this information over in his head. In truth, however, his mind had long since made the connections, or rather, the Hermione in his mind had and was exasperatedly telling him off for taking so very long to see the conclusion, the one he didn't want to accept, the truth at the centre of these ploys and games surrounding him._

_But he needed to know._

_"So... I have some unknown power to defeat Voldemort?"_

_Dumbledore smiled kindly. "A power He knows not, Harry. Either one Voldemort honestly doesn't know because his studies never revealed it to him, or one he doesn't understand. I think it is the latter. You see..."_

_But Harry interrupted him, longing to hear the words from the Headmaster. "'...and either must die at the hand of the other...'"_

_"That is the only possible outcome, I think, but only due to your personalities. Neither will Voldemort stop in his quest to eliminate the one threat to his dominance, his one weakness –you –nor will you, I believe and hope, stop opposing him. Think of all he has taken –all the loss he has caused –even just from you! Will you step aside; let others burden the pain, the struggle? Ultimately, you could try to refuse the calling, let others battle Voldemort, but will he respect your wishes?"_

_"So we will fight until one of us is dead," Harry concluded in the same calm tone. The noise in his head was nearly overwhelming, growing louder each moment, and the fire burned hotter than ever. How long until it would burst forth? Would his magic react, perhaps by causing accidental magic like it had done in third year when he had blown up his aunt? But then, why hadn't it already done so? His skin prickled, perhaps as a reaction to the boiling magic waiting to wreak havoc._

_"Don't forget the prophecy, Harry! The battle will continue until one of you is dead, yes. But then, you also have 'the power the Dark Lord knows not', and unless you consider yourself said Dark Lord," here the Headmaster smiled again, despite the gravity of the situation, „then you have an advantage. He has experience and knowledge, both of which are not infallible and, more importantly, not unique. In due time, you too will gain both, but still keep 'the power the Dark Lord knows not'. With each passing day the scales tip more and more in your favour."_

_Harry had trouble hearing the words. „And you've known this for almost sixteen years." It was a statement, not a question._

_"Harry, I did what I could to avert harm from you. I tried to shield you from the truth, like I said, until you were ready to bear the burden. The prophecy stopped offering useful information the night your parents died."_

_"You used it for your reasoning just moments ago. That I'd have a special power. How can it be useless then, if it told you that?" His tone had gained a definite edge. The lack of proper address wasn't lost on Dumbledore, but he apparently chose to overlook it. At the moment, he had far more important business to deal with. And wouldn't it seem hypocritical to scold Harry for lack of proper address when he very rarely showed Harry that respect?_

_"And it still offered no knowledge I didn't already have. Harry, the power is not a hidden talent, no special skill that I or anyone else can teach. It is simply love. Your love for Sirius led you into the Ministry, your love for your friends drove you to learn powerful defensive spells to protect them, because of your love for your fellow man you step forward, you face the danger, you face evils others flee from in blind terror and even your worst fears, you shoulder the burdens, willingly, so others are safe. Also, why do you want to be an Auror? You will understand it one day. That, Harry, is your power. You care for others and want to protect the innocent, something Voldemort literally can't understand. He gathers followers to achieve his goals; he corrupts, tortures and murders, sometimes without any gain at all apart from his sick pleasure. He gathers those around him who are of the same kind. I have never heard of a Death Eater who could produce a Patronus. Why should they want to? They have no interest in protection and certainly don't need it. Dementors are their natural allies, both revelling in the pain they cause._

_"It is for that special part of you, something Voldemort will not understand, that the prophecy offered no valuable information after your parents' death because the power you have is one you have because of who you are, not some secret magic. And as I have already explained, you will fight him until one of you dies, simply because no other outcome is possible in the battle of two stubborn wills. Your final confrontation is inevitable. Voldemort won't stop until he has bested you or died trying, and you will stop him from harming others, because you love too much to let him go unhindered."_

_Harry felt the scream build in his throat. The raging fire had become too much, it needed to escape, and Dumbledore deserved every insult and curse Harry longed to throw at him. He opened his mouth to shout, to call the Headmaster an idiot, to demand more information or whether this was some sick joke (the voices of Hermione and Snape agreeing enthusiastically, albeit for completely different reasons), but no sound left him. Instead, in the blink of an eye, an eerie calm washed over him, his mind deafeningly silent and clear as the starry, cloudless night sky in midwinter. Harry let his eye wander through the room. The many instruments were puffing just like before, but he didn't really pay their appearance much attention. A tingling sensation distracted him, a feeling that he associated with the presence of something out of the ordinary and yet different. It was familiar, as if it had been with him for as long as he could remember, as if something was calling to it. His eyes found Dumbledore again._

_"Now that you know," the Headmaster began, "you may trash the room or, if you want to, direct your anger at me."_

_Harry looked at the man in front of him. He had wanted to rage just moments ago, but found he had no interest in doing so. The fire was still there, but he had it under control. He had nothing to gain by giving in to his wishes and desires. Why should he vent? Dumbledore wouldn't suffer any permanent harm, it would be detrimental if he did, and his interference really wouldn't vanish if Harry did lash out._

_"No," Harry found himself say, "I don't want to." Had he always been so calm? It didn't matter. He had to defeat Voldemort, or be crushed by him. A ruthless wizard with over fifty years of experience against a barely talented and inadequately trained boy. Why hadn't Dumbledore arranged some private lessons? Duelling with Professor Flitwick. Advanced Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall. Anything to prepare the hope of the wizarding world for the task ahead._

_Nine years condemned to the treatment at the hands of the Dursleys, to keep them safe. Nine years of punishments, of bruises and insults, of hours of work and withheld food, to protect them from a very unlikely danger they were in only because he had been with them in the first place. Whatever the motivation, his placement with his relatives hadn't prepared him for the final confrontation, had it? And then? Five years. Five additional years Harry had been kept in the dark. Five years, wasted because the Headmaster had wanted to shield Harry from his destiny. Why hadn't Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall or, really, anyone taken the time to steer Harry, advised him on his path? Divination? Care of Magical Creatures? What good would those classes do in a fight against a dark wizard five decades his senior?_

_But no matter. The prophecy was effectively Harry's death penalty either way. In a way, it was strangely comforting; unlike most, Harry now knew how he would die –at the hands of Voldemort, condemning the world and leaving it at the nonexistent mercy of the current Dark Lord._

As if someone had used a switch, Harry woke up. That dream again about the talk in Dumbledore's office. Or should it be called a memory? He wasn't sure, as they had started to blend together, his real experiences and the worst possible assumptions his mind could come up with. Either way, Harry's eyes snapped open. The room was a blurry darkness, which told him that it was still very early. But Harry couldn't sleep anymore. He would surely end up returning to that memory, to that morning over a month ago. No, sleep was not an option. If he had had his Firebolt with him, it wouldn't have been a problem. He could have passed the time until everyone else rose, rested and ready for a new day, by servicing his trusted broom with his kit. But Mrs. Weasley had insisted that it had to be locked up like all the other brooms, to be fair to Ron, who hadn't been allowed to keep his with him either. Harry idly wondered whether the broom-servicing kit Hermione had given him had been meant as an inside joke and innuendo, from Muggleborn to Muggle-raised, but ultimately returned to his original train of thought of what to occupy himself with for the next –he glanced out of the window –three hours, he guessed until sunrise.

He could look through his books from past years. Hermione would be thrilled and Ron shocked if they ever learned about him reading his books in the middle of the night. But how would that be useful? He was already fairly advanced in Defence and would need practical training most of all. Transfiguration and Charms required the practical application as well –and Harry was better at using the spells than reading about the theory behind them anyway. It just felt wrong to break the Decree, not with his track record, even if Dumbledore had confided in him that the Ministry couldn't identify the caster and only went by the location of the spell to track under-age magic, so spellcasting was not an option. Herbology was the most practical class he knew apart from Care of Magical Creatures –because Hagrid disliked reading lengthy essays –only rivalled by Potions as taught by Snape. Hermione would of course disagree, pointing out the numerous assignments they had had to write for the greasy git, and in a way she was right. But in Harry's case, doing the assignments had rarely been worth the effort. Snape would sooner start a sensational singing career as the Lead of a Boy Band than grade the son of his childhood enemy fairly. And as useful as Potions knowledge was to Harry, he simply couldn't forget the acquired dislike for that course. Astronomy? Divination? History? None of these would be of significance to Harry.

His classmates would begin their own lives in a few short years, but it wasn't meant to be, not for him, at least. He, Harry, would continue his course towards his ultimate destiny and end. The only question was how he would meet it: Cowering at the feet of a megalomaniac, too weak to cause any change, or standing upright, fighting, and taking as many Death Eaters with him as he could? It had taken over a day until Harry had realized the truth he had said in the broom shed with Dumbledore. Life was too short –his, at least –and when his time would come, he would fight until his dying breath, maybe even taking Voldemort with him.

The last subject to consider for that goal, Care of Magical Creatures, certainly wasn't boring. In fact, with Hagrid teaching, it was anything but boring. Yet Harry was already decently familiar with a lot of creatures, and with the sheer number of possible beasts in Voldemort's service, that class wouldn't prepare him efficiently and be more of a stab in the dark.

In the end, he picked up one of the books from Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts, the joint gift from Lupin and Sirius from previous Christmas. Even if he couldn't actually use the spells, watching the movements being performed in the pictures and reading about the spells itself would hopefully teach him a bit. As soon as he would be at Hogwarts, he would have to try to learn them properly, of course. Why did the Ministry have to prohibit underage magic in the first place? Didn't they know how important continuous training was?

Great, now he sounded like Hermione, he mused. But still, she had a point. If he wasn't able to fly over the summer at the Weasley's, his skills on the pitch and broom would surely suffer severely, and the same had to apply to his other abilities as well.

Should he give up Quidditch? Refuse the captaincy? As much fun as the sport was, wouldn't his time be better used on Defence? But then, being Captain brought certain privileges. He would have a ready-made excuse to go out, leave the common room, supposedly to devise new plays. Or get a bit of alone time to hone his combat-skills. And Quidditch would keep him physically in shape. So no, he would stay on the team.

Thinking over all this brought Harry back to life. He took a shower and went to meet Hermione in the breakfast room, as they had been doing for the past two weeks which he had been living in the Potters – no, his, mansion. Sirius liked to sleep longer and Ron was never allowed away from the Burrow until lunchtime, so he and Hermione would eat and then spend hours in the vast library, looking for advantages which they could use for defeating Voldemort, on Horcruxes, and, of course, on defense in general.

Once they had gone through as many old, dusty tomes and written down any potentially useful information, they would wake up Sirius and the three would floo over to The Burrow to have lunch with Molly and the others, before then spending about 4 hours in a cleared room with Sirius and Arthur learning how to duel and use protective and offensive hexes, jinxes and spells. With every passing day the trio improved intensely. They had Ginny, Luna and Neville join them when they could, but decided on continuing the D.A when they were back in school so they didn't worry about teaching the others right then.

Umbridge would be gone that year, thank god, so they could re-build the DA without having to worry about being discovered. Harry and Hermione had made significant progress on the subject of horcruxes, and Remus had come to help them study the topic.

Based on what Dumbledore had taught him the year before, he could now list the 7 horcruxes; the diary, the ring, the cup, the diadem, the snake and the locket. The seventh was him. They had been listing possible places that they could be at, and were progressing to researching how you could destroy them.

Harry couldn't help but shudder when he thought about his fate, but he stood tall and faced his duty as the Chosen One with a head held high. Hermione and Ron were there with him, encouraging, supporting and always ready to comfort him. Now he just had to go back to Hogwarts and face Dumbledore.

What a mess.

**A/N: Hello, sorry for the long wait, but here's the chapter! For any confusion concerning timings and such, what's happening here is that it's the summer after fifth year for Harry and co, except Dumbledore had told Harry about horcruxes during that year. Sixth year will be exciting xx **


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